


lionheart

by millbert



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Explicit Language, Frenemies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 11:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millbert/pseuds/millbert
Summary: "I found something precious," Nigel calls into the radio. "I think it belongs to Ron Dennis."nigel & ayrton through the years





	lionheart

**Author's Note:**

> while this work is based on some real events, it is still fiction. it's a form of artistic expression coming from a fan who has a lot of feelings. i mean no offence.

1984

Brazilian air smells like shit. Well, not literally. But it's stale and rotting, sticking to the inside of Nigel's nose and mouth. It's fucking hot in Rio and he's sweating like a pig in his black overalls.

"Here you go." Elio, bless the kid's heart, hands him a bottle of water. Nigel would love nothing more than to drink it all at once, but declines with a heavy head shake.

"Not too fond of pissing myself halfway through the race."

Elio just chuckles. He's annoyingly good at handling the extreme heat. Nigel suspects the Italian blood.

He looks around, hoping to at least enjoy the sight of other drivers as miserable as he is, but the first thing he sees is a skinny kid shifting back into his white suit. He must be a rookie, since Nigel can't recognise his face. And it's memorable, a grim expression offset by a big nose and even bigger ears attached to the sides.

"How's he gonna fit all that under a helmet?" Nigel laughs to himself. Elio follows his line of sight.

"You mean Ayrton?"

"Who?"

"Ayrton Senna. He's with Toleman."

Elio pronounces it 'Ay-er-ton'. It's a weird name, but Senna makes a bell go off. Young, Brazilian, supposed to be good. He's not going to be, not in a Toleman. Nigel shrugs.

"Good for him."

1986

Detroit makes him sick. Everything does these days, but the heat most of all. It makes Nigel think of Elio, fucking Elio of all people, trapped in the flames and slowly suffocating. He cannot imagine it and doesn't want to, and yet his fucked up brain keeps on trying. If I survive this, Nigel thinks to himself, I'm going to the nearest McDonald's and getting a proper burger. With a nice splash of ketchup.

Something taps his shoulder. He turns to see Ayrton, no helmet, no balaclava, just curls sticking over those overgrown ears.

"Hello," Ayrton intones and settles against the side of the car. His hand reaches inside and lifts Nigel's visor, very gently. "Nigel, I need to tell you something."

"Are you leaving and never coming back?"

The little prick chuckles and shakes his head.

"No, no. But I will blast you off the track if you try to block me again. I'm warning you."

Nigel can count on his fingers the number of times somebody has rendered him speechless. Unfortunately, it looks like he's going to have to add one to the list. But before he can unbuckle himself, jump out of the car and just floor the insolent bastard, Ayrton strokes the side of his helmet. To an outsider, they must seem like friends.

"Stay safe out there," Ayrton says and leaves.

And he fucking wins.

1987

Fuckers. Bastards. Fucking useless cunts. Fuckers.

Somehow along the way the expletives have turned into a mantra. It helps Nigel as he inches towards regaining what was lost. He narrows his eyes at the shaking rump of the grisly Lotus right there in front of him. Senna drives like he's dancing the fucking samba.

But the yellow blob has to give way at some point, Malmedy, he hates it, but now they're side by side and--

They spin in perfect synchronisation like it's the bloody ballet, then they're out.

The turd is easy to find. He's hanging out in the garage, still wearing the suit that looks like someone's puked Colman's all over it, still cradling that horrid, piss-yellow helmet. It clangs to the ground when Nigel pulls Ayrton from his seat by the neck to fling him into the wall. He locks his palm around the overalls and they ride up the bastard's ugly face, all the way to his nose. A hot hand grips Nigel's wrist, tugs with not nearly enough strength.

"Next time you do that, you're going to have to do a much better job."

Ayrton's eyes are brown. Would look gorgeous with a dash of purple. And they're filling up with tears, honest to the heavens tears, until a cat-like hiss comes out of Ayrton and the combined force of three Lotus mechanics pulls Nigel off.

"Chill, Darth fucking Vader."

Oh. Not crying. Suffocating. Nigel makes a mental note for the future. 

"Do what?" Ayrton wheezes and coughs. "It was your fault--"

With an inhuman roar, Nigel lunges again, stopping at the last second when another mechanic, much taller than himself, whose name he knows but cannot for the life of him remember, shields that insufferable cock with his own body.

"Guys, this is not the way to--"

"I had the corner and you touched me!" Ayrton yells from his relatively safe space.

"I'll touch you alright, you cunt! Might knock out a few teeth while I'm at it!

"Fucking try me!"

"Okay, that's enough."

As they push Nigel out of what used to be his own garage before that cock showed up, he can still hear screaming in a language he cannot and doesn't care to understand.

1991

The sidelines are a beautiful sea of Union Jacks. Unhinged screaming from the radio is assaulting Nigel's eardrums, plugs be damned, adding to his own.

"Nigel, it's fine, it's okay!" Frank is yelling like nothing is okay. "You did it, you got it, you got Silverstone!"

Fuck Nelson. Fuck Alain. Fuck Ayrton, most of all. The McLaren probably got swallowed by the depths of hell; Nigel can't see it in his mirror even though it's been sitting on his tail for the entire race.

"Where's Senna?" he asks just in case the asshole decided to appear and deck him from the side after all.

"Out," the radio crackles. "No fuel." 

He's there as Nigel makes it around the corner, a small spot of red crowned in the ugliest shade of yellow Nigel has ever had the misfortune to see. Two, three cars pass him by. It's a surprisingly sad sight in an otherwise happy day.

Fuck it.

Ayrton swiftly climbs onto the car the moment Nigel rolls up to him, one skinny leg pushing into the cockpit next to Nigel's own, one gloved palm fluttering against his helmet. They're off, Nigel and his cargo, despite the marshalls' half-hearted resistance.

"I found something precious," Nigel calls into the radio. "I think it belongs to Ron Dennis."

"We'll let him know. Good job, Nigel."

"Thanks, boys. Wouldn't happen without you. See you soon."

They roll under the sun, along the lines of the cheering crowds, in a perfect fucking dream. When Nigel finally reaches the garage, Ayrton holds on to him and gently knocks their helmets together in an approximation of a kiss.

At least he has enough decency to thank for the ride.

1992

From his second-place spot on the podium, leg numb and lungs aching with something unnamed, Nigel can see the field of flags rippling in the wind down below. Bandeiras, for the race winner. Union Jacks, some bearing his name, for the motherfucking World Champion. Something swells in his chest, makes his throat tighten and his eyes sting. It's painful, and yet he feels so light like he could fly.

"Come on!"

The distinctive accent rings over the screams of the crowd and Nigel is manhandled onto the top of the podium. Ayrton wraps an arm around Nigel's shoulders, pulls him close.

"Congratulations."

He's so damn beautiful, Nigel thinks deliriously, even with the ears and the nose, he must've grown into his features at some point, or maybe it's just because the whole world is much more beautiful than it was moments ago. When someone else - Ayrton - was the reigning World Champion.

His anthem blasts full force from the speakers. Nigel relaxes into the embrace, finds Ayrton's hand with his own, and holds on.

1994

It's the biggest funeral Nigel has ever missed. Three million people, the man on the TV says, and his voice is flat. 

The camera lingers on Alain, that poor bastard, blinking furiously, his mouth tight. Nigel wants to look away - it feels like he's interfering with Alain's grief, how much he's struggling to contain it - and yet he can't. At least he's allowed to cry in earnest. At home, it's just him, and his couch, and his TV. But Alain couldn't stay home. 

Nigel watches him turn again and again, as he walks away, and for a moment he thinks that maybe Alain won't leave after all. Maybe he will switch places with one of the soldiers at Ayrton's side. It would make sense, to have someone there who actually knew him and cared for him, in his own complicated way. Nigel imagines Alain and Gerhard, then himself and Rubens coming to relieve them, in an intricate manoeuvre like the one at the Buckingham Palace. 

And then maybe, at night, once everyone has gone, the casket will pop open and Ayrton will climb out, disheveled, blushing, and alive, to announce that it's just one of his stupid pranks.

Always such a fucking drama queen.


End file.
